


Vivid

by 57821



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Gen, Leroux inspired as usual, Slice of Life, some historical inaccuracies but idgaf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26744701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/57821/pseuds/57821
Summary: Christine teaches Erik how to cook.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Vivid

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the #Blacktober challenge on Twitter. Day One: Childhood Favorite(s). 
> 
> Now before we begin, Erik and Christine are Afro-Guatemalan in this and I also happen to be so. In that sense, this is a very personal and self indulgent AU.

The tablecloth of the wide wooden table is diligently woven, in a spectrum of color with stitching that zigzags and others flatlining. Thick corn tortillas stuffed with black refried beans still warm from the stovetop are wrapped in the material of the same making, centering the table, nourishing them for the night. Cucumbers sliced and diced with cubes of ripe red tomatoes wait in a large glass bowl on the tabletop. Preferring chives and scallions over the usual blooming full onions, they are tossed in along with the rest.

Carrying bunches of the bright purpled roots of radish in her hand, Christine scrubs down the dirt in cold water. Just as she's about to reach for a knife, she hears him say,

"Erik will do it. You could get hurt."

So she lets him, knowing it comes from a good place. Kitchen knife in hand, he chops off the greenery on a wooden cutting board, slicing at the edge of the root and once diced, they too find refuge within the rest of the ingredients.

Their sessions together all began in the event of Christine crafting a warm atol for Erik. 

A special occasion of rice in chocolate with added cinnamon suiting his tastes so much that he just about begged her to teach him. Her, never being quite able to refuse anything of him, did so. And even though his final product ended up just a tad overly sweet like him regardless, he was quite proud of his efforts and in turn so was she. In this Christine gained in her hand a student, turning the tables on him yet again. With the added aid of Mamá Valerius and all her knowledge back home that Christine was too young to absorb in all her time there, the two had a grand time experimenting in the realm of food. 

She hosts get-togethers once in a while. Sometimes between solely her and Erik, others with members of her other circles. At times, Rahim joins them with a jumbled memory from back home (Darius always sends her the lists days beforehand with an added warning that everything he attempts to cook is… quite questionable). Raoul's the better chef out of her three boys and they meet up when he isn't caught up in his storm of affairs and she isn't kept running ragged at the Garnier. Though sometimes all three of them happen to stumble in through her doors and the atmosphere is just bubbling with awkward tension. But she’d rather not think of those times.

Mamá Valerius who on occasion comes in out of the blue right in the middle of preparation with all her wisdoms and embraces Erik in her plump arms, willfully ignoring how he grows flustered everytime she does so and announces, "Right, let's get to it!"

But when it's the two of them, with no added bustle, she'd go out of her way to get him little things before they'd get cracking. Preparing scalding hot milk and espresso, extra strong just how he likes it best, half and half when she knows he's coming. Then she'd set out all the ingredients and they'd prepare themselves to spend the entire day cooped in the kitchen, with an old recipe from home that she knows he'd like.

Christine knows Erik favors his meals spicy but they aren't exactly known for that, so she makes adjustments just for him. Tossing in saffron and paprika and on special occasions chile de árbol, packed dried and ready to attack the senses. 

On very rare occasions, a ship would dock from the so-called “New World” (which never fails to make her eyes roll), bringing back plantain and she'd stock up, frying up a bunch in oil with added sugar, always saving a half for him because she knows he likes his sweets as much as he tries to deny it.

"Coffee and sweets are harsh for the voice", argued her Maestro once, many moons ago.

(Sure Erik, sure.)

Washing shrimp alongside each other, scalding water before setting them up to truly boil. Wringing the limes that would ferment the shrimp down into the bowl as they cool, the acidity irritating their wrists. In the aftermath of their finished boiling and cooling them down, comes the tiresome part of ridding the thin orange exoskeleton. But this time made easy with an extra helping hand. Itchiness lingers on their hands after peeling the shrimp, washing them down after handling them firmly in costly aromatic soap that Christine favors. 

Erik keeps the kitchen clean while Christine seasons, for her hands are more adept for this delicate process. Handfuls of cilantro are washed and chopped, making their way into the bowl. A spoonful or two of salsa inglesa. Herb rack in hand, adding as much as it feels right though she always does go overboard with the oregano. A single dried laurel leaf now brewing in the bottom of the bowl with the generous amount of salt added by Christine to taste.

To an outsider, the two would have been assumed to be dining like the finest of them all with the most exotic tastes or whatever on Earth those words are supposed to mean. But for Christine, these were the simple tastes of her girlhood (though it really mostly depended on the season and how much they made on the streets). 

Still, there was something about biting into a still hot plátano rellenitos de frijol by the seaside. Slow cooked fish in coconut, laurel poking out of the pot during a good haul. And now, through Erik, she gets to pass down her youth to what was denied of him.

"This meal is dedicated to my dear Erik. As always." She announces, pulling away from the bowl for everything needed is now added. Nerves bubble as she paces towards the icebox. "And in this event, I have something quite special for you." 

As always.

Emerging from behind with a glass pitcher in hand filled to the brim with bittersweet tamarindo. Peeled beforehand with those husks that were always particularly bothersome, picking out the strings, the backbone of it but his warm gasp would always be worth it in the end.

"This all would've cost me an arm and leg without your influence." Noting his laugh at that, rumbling and deep, something rare and precious and she wants to store it away in a glass jar forever.

Submerged in icy distilled water were the sour peeled dark brown fruit pulp with added lime, plentiful sugar and cinnamon sticks left to brew.

"Darius' connections always leave me in awe." Pouring halfway for him, handing him a glass.

Truly they did! With her schedule, one can never keep an exact track of the growing markets.

Pinky finger sticking out as he makes the first test, Christine reeling in anticipation.

"Oh, Erik's had this in his travels!"

"Really?" It comes out strained.

"By the bucketful."

"Oh Erik, I'm jealous." 

And disappointed. Next time, she'd have to work twice as hard to surprise him. Now if only she could get her hands on some marañón. That would really get him going.

Retrieving a lid in her nimble hands, saying, "Well, it's time. Remember, you can always use a fish substitute." 

When everything settled and simmered they could add chunks of avocado and Erik's favored chiles because if done so early, it could mess with the broth. She learned that the hard way when she added purple cabbage to her first batch, noting in the way the entire thing turned in a particular shade of purple.

Sealing it secure with a tight lid and heading over to slide it into the icebox for it tastes better overnight, she hears him begin, "You know, Erik has been just about everywhere but _there_."

"However Erik believes his mother mentioned hailing from the mountainside."

Saying nothing and only nodding, letting him do the talking for it's rather rare that he even speaks of it at all.

"You come from the coast, right?"

"Right you are!" She replies, making her way back to him, who is seated by the kitchen table, hands resting on his legs, slouched in a posture that is so unlike him. "This recipe is from my hometown by the way."

Mouth running off getting ahead of herself in all her excitement, "Too bad I haven't seen a coconut shipment yet. I know this one recipe that'd you'd like-" 

Then he interrupts. 

"Tell me about it."

"The recipe?"

"Home." Erik breathes.

Christine blinks, black eyes focusing on him then to the tablecloth.

"Oh." 

Home.

What about home?

Well for starters, the mountains and slightest hint of smoke rising in the distance in all their travels around the country. Never-ending civil unrest with faces as weary and as exhausted as their own. The high pitched cry of a marimba being struck by her Papí, a soft stick in hand. Avoiding grasslands while on the road in fear of a lingering snake and the tell-tale cock of a pistol in the event of encountering one. Winding processions in the streets during La Semana Santa, Christ and the patron saints in all their wisdom carried along by strong hands. Lush greenery outstretching the outskirts of the dingy capitol, warm sand on the coast.

Being luckier than many to spend hours huddled in between books of the sciences and of art. Rushing back before dawn to avoid hearing of El Cuco's wrath from Papí again. Hand in hand with a mini vizconde after getting up to some mischief in the harbor, curls tied up in her mother's red headwrap. Docks filled with boats that she'd one day board, armed in citrus to keep herself from succumbing to the ills of the sea, bundled up next to Mamá Valerius. Leaving in the nick of time for tensions were beginning to bubble up again (however, weren't they always?). The boring, the good, the bad. 

No, Christine wants something to pull him in. Something to match his exciting life from her own dreadfully plain one.

"Every once in a while, the Earth shook. Not enough to create panic. But it kept us on our feet." So she begins in typical storybook fashion, picking up that habit her Papí fell into whenever she asked him of something. 

Adding with a soft smile. "Similar to your past antics." 

Scanning her mind for something interesting, then it hits her, something buried inside her from long ago and with a sad smile she decides, "But today, let me tell you about one particular tremor. Now you see when I was around the age of eight and we were performing in around Chimaltenango." 

Eyes widening, she clams her mouth shut, pauses, then begins speaking in a much faster pace once more. "Wait… or was it? Oh well, nevermind about that."

“Anyways, let’s begin again,” clasping her hands together.

Descending into her tale with wide gestures as the two wait for the finished product to marinate, Erik listening attentively and with the buzzing of cicadas ringing on into the night, it feels like she's back home.

**Author's Note:**

> When I mentioned Rahim in this, that is my name for "The Daroga".
> 
> Glossary:  
> Ceviche de camarón = fermented shrimp in lime sauce (What Christine and Erik were making. Also the recipe for the ceviche in this fic is of my own creation. So yeah!)  
> Atol de chocolate con arroz guatemalteca = rice w chocolate, also uses cinnamon  
> Agua fresca de tamarindo = tamarind drink. Estilo guatemalteco, sin hervir ;+)  
> Rellenitos de plátanos con frijoles molidos negros: stuffed plantain with refried black beans (often topped with sugar)  
> Pupusas guatemaltecas: thick stuffed tortillas (you choose your own filling!)  
> Marañón = cashew fruit  
> Café con leche = espresso + hot milk  
> chile de árbol = mexican tree peppers  
> salsa inglesa = worchestire sauce (used in ceviche)
> 
> Erik's mom's side is from Antigua for this AU and Christine is from Livingston.
> 
> Some Christine sketches I did:  
> http://imgur.com/gallery/rDQqHdc


End file.
